


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑠𝑡

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [7]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Digital Art, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Murder cover up, Nightmares, Psychosis, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, canon minor character death, reader-driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑠𝑡 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#paradise-lostThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Series: Domino 🁡 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑠𝑡

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Paradise Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685279) by John Milton. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[Paradise Lost](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradise_Lost) \- John Milton  
>  **— Cover Song:**[The Exorcist Theme Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1PH_Y8Xn4g) \- The Exorcist  
>  **— Assets:**[Stock Texture](https://www.tfmstyle.com/), [Prodigal Son Still](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prodigal_Son_\(TV_series\))

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/paradise-lost.jpg) |   
---|---  
  
It takes only a breath for their entire world to turn upside down.

Endicott's last breath.

No two brothers were ever alike, not since the beginning of time. Malcolm and Ainsley were no exception.

They stood apart as water and oil, personalities on opposite ends of the spectrum, meeting ever so slightly in the middle where it came to the shared love for their mother.

Ainsley had skimmed over the family tragedy like a butterfly fluttering above a sea of prickly cactus, aware of their deadly sharpness but never setting down long enough to feel their touch.

Malcolm had been impaled by those pricks at the tender age of ten and he had never been quite able to free himself from their bite.

When he was ten and Ainsley five, childhood psychologists had been as common in their existence as other children have nannies and playdates. It was their 'normal' after regular normal had been shattered to pieces by their serial killer father.

Martin Whitly’s omnipresence in their lives had the same influence as a malevolent, all powerful father, looming over them like a dark stormy cloud.

Malcolm was the troubled son, the one with the complex PTSD, the night terrors, and psychosomatic tremors. Ainsley was perfect.

A little angel.

If anyone was to be Lucifer in their story, Malcolm had always assumed that the role would be taken by their father or, in the worst case, himself.

His baby sister had never been on his list. A fallen angel.

What did that make him then in their tragic little tale? He was too jaded to be Adam, and Eve was dead. Could he be Michael, the righteous one who did the right thing and tossed his sister into hell?

“We need to get rid of the body,” Malcolm found himself saying. In reality, there was no need to say it out loud, as he was the only one listening. Ainsley was dissociating from the fact that she had just slit a man's throat before stabbing him close to twenty times, and Endicott was too dead to listen to anything, anymore.

Imagine that Eve -the one in Paradise, not his dead girlfriend- had decided to slit the snake's throat instead of listening to its whispered words about how delicious the forbidden fruit was? How different the story would be if Adam and Eve had lived happily ever after in that wondrous secret garden, concerned about nothing more than finding ways to pass their tedious days?

That was not the point. The point was Malcolm would never allow his baby sister to fall into hell.

He had experienced a single night in jail, the embarrassment of having his mugshot taken and fingerprints booked. The tension and fear of being stuck in a cell with complete strangers. The uncertainty of not knowing how much longer he would have to spend there.

He could not imagine -he did not want to imagine- Ainsley in that same situation. He was going to stop that from happening at any cost. Currently, that meant getting rid of the mess in their mother's living room.

“Ains...you need to go upstairs and wash yourself,” he ordered her, grabbing his trembling sister by her shoulders and holding her still until her eyes met his. There was finally a spark of sanity igniting in her hazel eyes, a kindle of hope for their helpless situation.

“Wash myself,” she repeated automatically, looking down at her herself in search of a reason to need a bath. It had been the same when she was a small child, always arguing that she didn't need a bath because she couldn't see any dirt on her.

It was not an argument that she could presently use. Evidence of Endicott's murder was all over her clothes and face, blood splatter patterns that even the most clueless crime scene tech could piece together.

“Yes, Ains, wash yourself really well, okay?” he repeated, pushing her towards the stairs. “Wait for me in your room, you hearing me?”

Ainsley nodded, casting one last look at the dead body on the carpet. There was an oddly satisfied glint to her eyes, like she enjoyed the sight. That, more than her knife work, sent a shiver up Malcolm's spine.

Lucifer was more than a fallen angel. He was also God's ultimate fail.

With his sister finally gone, Malcolm looked around the room, running a hand through his hair. He had been in enough crime scenes like this one to know that there was no way to hide something that messy. There was blood everywhere, and that was only the parts he could see. How many killers had he caught because of that one drop of blood that they had failed to spot, the one tiny drop that had been missed in the cleanup?

Endicott's body was easy enough to dispose of. He had worked long enough in the FBI to know the best and most effective ways to make a body disappear entirely or become so corrupted that not even the most brilliant of medical examiners could learn a single thing from it. Besides, the house came with its own serial killer tunnels. All he had to do was stuff the body in there for a few days and calmly get rid of it later.

But the room...

Malcolm looked at the old portraits hanging from the walls, the bookshelves with his mother's books, trinkets all over the furniture, things she had collected her whole life, things that had been in the family for centuries.

There was only one solution.

Fire.

First, he needed to take care of the blood that had already soaked through the wooden panels on the floor. It would be pointless to destroy the Milton's family house and still end up in jail because of a piece of preserved blood under the floor.

So, bleach first. Then fire.

They had always warned their mother about the dangers of keeping lit candles all over the house. That night, they came in handy.

Malcolm quickly located the house cleaning supplies in a cupboard closet in the kitchen. Luisa, bless her soul, liked to buy bleach by the gallon, making Malcolm's life easier.

He carried the large container to the living room, postponing dealing with the body as much as he could. A small corner of his mind kept screaming at him that this was wrong, that he should call someone.

Any other time -different circumstances notwithstanding- Malcolm would have called Gil. The Lieutenant, however, was currently going through surgery, fighting for his life because the corpse in Jessica Whitly's living room had stabbed him.

Somehow, the thought made the act of rolling Endicott into the expensive Persian rug a little bit easier.

By the time Malcolm had managed to drag him downstairs and into the hidden tunnels, he was drenched in sweat, needing a bath himself. Before he could do that, however, he needed to check on Ainsley.

The door to her room was wide open, the clothes she had been wearing scattered across the floor, like a breadcrumb trail that led to her bathroom. Inside, Malcolm couldn't hear a thing, not even the shower running.

“Would you like some apple tea?”

Ainsley's voice nearly sent him jumping through the ceiling. He had been so focused on the light coming from the bathroom that he missed his sister entirely, sitting on the floor by the other side of her bed, a tiny table and matching set of tea cups in front of her. From the pale blue light coming from outside, he could see that she had showered already, even though she had forgotten to dress afterwards. “Ains...what are you doing?” His voice was deadly calm, even though he was screaming inside.

She looked up at him, an innocent smile on her face. “Having a tea party, silly!”

They say Hell is nothing but fire and brimstone, and yet all that Malcolm could feel was a cold so deep and intense that blood seemed to have frozen inside his veins. Ainsley was having a psychotic break, and while he could work on covering a murder or covering for his sister's loss of sanity, he couldn't do both successfully.

“Ainsley, you need to snap out of it and get dressed!” he yelled, his own nerves finally getting the better of him. The tremor in his hands that had been his constant companion since he had entered the house to find Nicholas waiting for him had expanded to his whole body. His vision was shimmering at the edges, as if politely asking him if he wanted to make it all go away.

He did. God! He wanted nothing more than to make it all go away. That would mean destroying his sister's life.

“I can't go to jail, Mal,” Ainsley whispered, for a moment returning to her adult self. “I can't!”

Hell would be denied its ruler as long as Malcolm had a say in the matter.

“Don't worry, Ains,” he whispered, fetching a quilt from her bed to throw over her naked shoulders. “I'm not going to let you fall down...” 

Even if it meant taking the fall himself.

— ◌◯◌ —

As a child, Ainsley ran down the hall when thunder crashed and rattled her foundation. She’d sit on her brother’s bed until the scare passed, he tinkering at his desk and talking to her in soothing tones as the rumbles disappeared into the distance. All these years later, she can’t recall any of the conversations, yet she’ll never forget the feeling of safety. In the years before their father was arrested, moments like that were commonplace.

"Mom, tell me," Ainsley pleads, the phone her only lifeline to what's going on at the hospital. She’d already be there if she didn’t have an ankle monitor and the threat of prison time hanging over her head. The judge had made it _very_ clear if she messed up, it was a do not pass go scenario, onward to follow in her father’s footsteps into a prison cell.

Her mother sighs. "It's not good. He's breathing on his own, but he's unconscious."

Seriously ill brother, prison. Seriously ill brother, prison. "I'm coming down there." Her gut reaction still pulls her to Malcolm.

"You _can't_ ,” her mother orders, tone not welcoming any argument. “You're on house arrest. You're not doing _anything_ to jeopardize your ability to get off of those murder charges."

"My brother in the hospital seems like an extenuating circumstance," Ainsley argues.

"That will land you back in prison. Your brother's enough to deal with — you know better. Don't do something stupid," her mother scolds.

"He knows better, too."

"I've given up hope of convincing him differently. You, I might still have a chance."

"I'm the one who killed a man," Ainsley scoffs as if it was a prize she won and didn’t get any recognition.

"Self-defense — get that through your head," her mother drills through the phone.

"It wasn't." Her brother wouldn’t do the deed, so she did. She was angry about what Endicott had done to her family, scared of whether he would harm anyone else that evening, but aware. The man hadn’t tried to hurt them. She didn’t want it to get to that point, either.

" _Ainsley Whitly_ ," her mother huffs, scorn nearly visible through the phone.

"If he gets any worse, I'm coming." It’s not even a question of repercussions — she’ll be there.

"Do not make me have Gil send someone to watch over you."

"He wouldn't abuse his power like that. He's a good guy, mom — don't mess it up." The one man who hasn’t brought some sort of harm to their family. She isn’t nearly as close to him as Malcolm is but knows Gil’s always there for whatever they need, knows her brother’s still around because of him.

"Stay put. If anything changes, I will _call_ you."

"Roger. Give him a pinch for me."

Ainsley hangs up and lets her phone fall to the bed. Her childhood bedroom has been totally redone, everything replaced with a new shade of Jessica. She's stuck in her mother's house until the trial is complete, until she hopefully gets to go back to her apartment, free.

That freedom includes her brother. She shakes her hair, frustrated that she can't go see him. It's the least she can do to pay him back for everything he's helped with since the incident. Since she snapped, stabbed Endicott, and turned the whole living room into a Pollack painting. A priceless work of art forever splattered into her memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
